How Dirty Girls Get Clean
by Dipenates
Summary: Puck likes having sex. He doesn't get why Santana thinks never saying no is a good idea. Spoilers through 1.15 "The Power of Madonna". Warnings inside.


**How Dirty Girls Get Clean**

**Warning: **bad language, moderate smut, and references to violence against women including domestic abuse and child abuse.

**Spoilers:** Through 1.15 "The Power of Madonna"

* * *

"And she wrapped her legs around him  
And she's got no home"

_How Dirty Girls Get Clean, _Hole

* * *

He always told Finn that high school girls were too much freakin' _work_, with their celibacy clubs, and hair-tossing, and giggling, and tight spanks that a guy could sprain his wrist trying to get inside. It wasn't really true, though.

Cougars were awesome. They smelled expensive, and didn't have to leave their bedroom door open, and didn't freak out because they felt guilty that some guy had his fingers on their clit. They knew what they liked, and they knew what he probably liked, and they didn't have stupid little beds that it was easy as hell to fall out of.

They also talked to him like he was a person, and not some cosmic adversary, and he was so tired of playing games that he could hardly bear it. Untangling the shit with Quinn and Finn was about as much high-school bullshit as he could cope with, and damned if that hadn't been the most expensive cheap fuck of his life.

It was like his eyes were clearer now, and he could see the truth of the situation. Finn hadn't told him much about the night he went over to the Febray's for dinner, but he could join the dots that sketched Mr Febray, psychotic religious jackass, just fine by himself. Quinn had been like a two-by-four under him, and it had taken every bit of skill he had to get her to unclench her jaw and make a noise. He could remember the look on her face when she collapsed against his chest, like he'd given her the keys to the kingdom. Damn if _that _wasn't a shame, a pretty girl not knowing what was going on between her legs. _Any _girl.

The women who paid for his pool-cleaning services knew what was going on, and had introduced him to a whole bunch of flavours that weren't vanilla. Had introduced him to something else too, something that he couldn't talk about without sounding like some dude on Oprah.

Mrs Blomqvist, the hottie on the corner whose pool he'd been cleaning for months, had all these silk scarves hanging on her bedframe. A lot of the ladies liked a little spice with their afternoon delight, and there was almost nothing about mail-order handcuffs he hadn't learned in the past year. He'd gone to push her hands above her head, so he could tie them to the frame with the scarves, and she'd gone as stiff as Quinn. Had looked at him like she was Bambi's Mom and he was Hunter Joe, and he'd never felt more like a stupid kid when he realised she had tears in her eyes.

He started paying attention then, like he was the nasty shit detective of Lima.

Mrs Andrews had been rattled the last time he saw her, but he'd kissed her eyelids as they sat on her glider and she'd taken him into her bedroom and snapped the blinds closed. It was dark in there, on her flowery sheets, but not dark enough to conceal the boot-sized bruise on her back.

Ms Graham's husband had called, unexpectedly, when he was drinking lemonade in her kitchen, and she'd sounded like a scared first grader talking to the Principal.

It was like the definition of _piece of shit_ was expanding in front of his eyes, and who knew that Lima was so full of dudes that needed cold-cocking?

He'd always liked Santana Lopez, right from when they were in kindergarten and she'd helped him find his mittens one day, when they'd fallen out of his coat. She was a sarcastic bitch, but she was pretty funny. And smokin' hot.

She was also the best lay he'd ever had at McKinley. No muss, no fuss with Santana, and she had a mouth like a vacuum cleaner. Didn't want to snuggle afterwards, just wanted a belt of vodka and a burger, and that would have been his kind of girl, if she was in to repeat performances.

The week after they had hooked up, he'd bumped into her at the local burger bar. She was just climbing out of the back of some college boy's car, eye makeup smudged. She'd tottered unsteadily on her heels, and she would have crashed into him if he hadn't put up a hand to steady her. She'd shaken it off, and given him a look like she'd just scraped him off her shoe. She'd said she was peachy keen, thank you very fucking much, and then, off his confused look, asked if he'd never fucking seen _Grease. _Pleasantries over, she had pivoted on her stupid shoes like she was going to walk back to her house. He'd driven her home, of course, because he wasn't a complete asshole, and she'd said nothing in the car. They'd never talked about it again. Nothing to talk about.

He wasn't even really listening when the girls started in at Glee on their relationship crap. He was so over Berry and that St James freak. But Berry did have excellent projection, and it made it kind of hard to put her on ignore.

"How do I stop a guy from getting mad at me for saying no?"

His head snapped up at that, and he fully expected Mr Shue to bust out a huge lecture on no-means-no and how the dudes in Glee should keep it zipped unless the girl was totally into it. The kind of thing he might have said, if he wasn't afraid of looking like a douche.

But Mr Shue just looked kind of nervous, like he wished he was anywhere but there, and Santana chipped in.

"Just do what I do. Never say no."

He looked at her then, like he was at some weak-assed tennis game, and she was smirking a little bit, but not enough to cover up that thing he'd seen in the parking lot. His head snapped back to Mr Shue, because surely to _Jesus _a teacher should step in now, but he just waved them into their next assignment as if Berry and Lopez were talking about the weather.

He followed Santana out into the hall after practice, and past Ms Pillsbury's office, and whoever thought it was a good idea hiring some virgin freak to be the counsellor was out of their mind.

"Santana—" He didn't know what to say.

She opened her locker. Dragged a book out. Snapped her gum. "What is it, Puck?"

"How you doing?" _Fucking smooth, man. _

She raised an eyebrow. "What's it to you?"

"That 'never say no' shit." He hesitated. Her expression didn't change. "You shouldn't say stuff like that, Santana. Berry doesn't know you're kidding around."

She wrapped a strand of hair from her ponytail around one finger. "Who says I'm kidding, Puck?"

He swallowed. He wanted to say a million things. That she didn't deserve to be the meat sock for some guy's spank session. That she deserved to have as much fun in the sack as any boy. That if her Daddy was the kind of asshole that pulled back his daughter's bedspread in the middle of the night then Puck would kill him all by himself.

"Do you need help?"

She turned to the mirror on the inside of her locked, lip gloss wand in hand. "I'm more of a get some and get gone kind of girl."

He licked his lips. "Not help getting laid. _Help_."

She looked at him then, and for a tiny fraction of a second there was something in her eyes that made him want to punch a wall. Then her glossy mouth curved up in a smirk. "You're sweet when you're on your period, Puck, but I'm golden."

She shut her locker door and walked off down the hall. He knew that she knew that he was staring at her ass.


End file.
